Folding Paper
by x - painted.flames
Summary: ReplikuNaminé; ---- With each gentle touch or chaste kiss, it folded and turned into something more intricate and beautiful. But with every harsh word and turned back, it unfolded and fell apart. And then, suddenly, it tore to pieces.
1. Folding The Paper

_**Title **- Folding Paper_

_**Author** - Kiiro Kasai_

_**Pairing** - Riku Replica x Namine_

_**Status** - Complete, but not completely posted._

_**Length** - Threeshot._

_**Summary** - With each whispered word, gentle touch, or chaste kiss, it folded and turned into something more intricate and beautiful. But with every harsh word, hateful look, and turned back, it unfolded and fell apart. And then, right when everything folds up again, it tears apart. _

_**Disclaimer** - I'd really love to call Riku Replica my own. Really, I would. But since Square Enix has Sephiroth at their disposal to hunt me down and slice me to bits with Masamune, I'll have to say that no, I don't own the characters or settings. D:_

_**Comments** - This all came from me figuring out how to fold an origami paper crane. Originally it was going to be totally different . . . sort of. Not really. Ah, well. Anyway, I've found out that Riku Replica x Namine is the one hetero pairing I can really work with and really enjoy writing. So, you'll probably be seeing more of that. I also tried future tense for this fic. I have no idea why. I just did. So we'll see how it goes.Anyway, since I don't want my A/N to get any longer, just read on! :)_

**_Folding the Paper_**

_**pa·per**__ pey-per –noun 1. a substance made from wood pulp, rags, straw, or other fibrous material, usually in thin sheets, used to bear writing or printing, for wrapping things, etc._

Delicate hands ghost over the silver paper, pressuring the edges at some points, pulling it apart, pushing it in, molding it, shaping it, _creating _it.

A black gloved hand intercepts the smaller one. Tracing his fingers over her hand, he rests the tips against the shape she made. "What are you making?" he asks, aquamarine eyes gazing at the something she made from almost nothing.

"A bird," she replies simply, then elaborates, "Flying free through the skies; doing what we can't." She continues to fold and shape, manipulating the paper to her will.

He watches her for a moment, entranced by the way she can take something as simple as paper and turn it into something complicated and beautiful. "It looks difficult," he comments after awhile.

She smiles slightly, then says, "It is." She pauses, then adds, "I've never done it before."

"Why don't you draw it instead?" he asks, tilting his head slightly in curiosity. "You're better at that."

"I could do that," she admits. "But there would be no challenge in it." She pushes the last fold into place, and holds up the paper crane. "See?" she smiles. "It may not look as good, but it's so much more beautiful when you had to work hard for it. Do you understand?"

Oh, he understands. He understands only too well. "Yes," he says simply, closing his hand over hers protectively. He worked hard for her, and he won't lose her.

She smiles at him, then places the paper bird on the table, and picks up another sheet, a pale yellow one this time. "I'll make another one. One for me, and one for you."

"You don't have to do that," he murmurs, grasping her hand a little tighter.

"But I want to." She smiles up at him, her pale golden hair bouncing around her face as she turns her head to look at him.

His heart clenches slightly as he stares at her angelic face. It isn't fair that she has to stay locked up here. She should be able to run free, spread her wings and fly. And yet she must stay here and do the bidding of those who care nothing for her.

"However," she begins, clueless as to the thoughts going through his head. "You'll have to let go of my hand first." She attempts a grin, but it comes out as a smile, as always. She never could be anything but charming and sweet, no matter how much she tried.

Reluctantly, he lets go of her hand, allowing her to begin folding the second paper bird. He watches her carefully, trying to figure out how it goes from something so simple to something so complicated and delicate. But she folds the paper quickly, having more knowledge of it now after folding the first, and he cannot follow her movements for long. He gives up, and instead reflects on what the paper reminds him of.

The folded paper reminds him of their relationship. It started out thin and flat, lacking depth or substance. But then, little by little, it grew. Whispered words of comfort when the others weren't looking, gentle touches when brushing past each other, small gifts secretly exchanged. With each new turn and fold of their relationship, it began to solidify and take shape, becoming more intricate and fine with every chaste kiss or affectionate word.

Brushing back strands of silver hair from his eyes, he returns his attention to the blue-eyed girl as she folds the paper crane. She is struggling slightly now, apparently having forgotten the step to take. She folds it one way, then pushes it back and folds it a different way. Frustrated, she unfolds it several times and begins folding again, this time trying something slightly different.

Seeing her frustration, he murmurs a few comforting words of advice and gently rests his hand on her shoulder. She smiles at him gratefully, then begins her task anew, this time being careful and precise with every fold and turn.

He gently rubs the tips of her hair between two fingers, letting the soft strands slip through his fingers like water as he contemplates more symbolism. Her actions in folding the crane were just like whenever they had a fight or an argument– tempers would break, accusations would be flung, and frustration would course through the air. Then they would back off and cool down, then start over with more gentle and less biting words.

"There!" exclaims the girl suddenly, carefully placing the paper crane on the white table. "I did it!" She smiles brightly at the silver-haired youth, waiting for his verdict.

"It's beautiful," he murmured, tracing his fingers over the pale yellow wings.

"No, it's not. You're just saying that," she says readily. "See, here? Look, you can see where I folded in the wrong place." She points to the crease, then to another, and another.

"That may be so, but you'll never be able to do anything wrong in my eyes," he whispers leaning down and pressing a chaste kiss to her cheek.

She giggles slightly, batting him away. "Flatterer," she teases, before picking up the crane again and holding it out to him. "Like I said, one for me, and one for you."

He gently takes it from her hands, careful not to bend the wings or tail. "A bird to fly where we can't," he says quietly, tracing its shape with one figure.

She smiles sweetly, sadly, then picks up her own silver paper crane and holds it up, saying, "But one day we will."

"One day," he murmurs, holding the yellow bird close to his heart. One day, they will fly away from this place, to the freedom neither of them had ever known.

_Two more to go . . ._


	2. Unfolding The Paper

_Shorter, I know, but I kinda changed the plot halfway through, so . . . _

_Enjoy it anyways! :)_

* * *

_**Unfolding the Paper**_

_**mem·o·ry **__mem-uh-ree –noun 1. the mental capacity or faculty of retaining and reviving facts, events, impressions, etc., or of recalling or recognizing previous experiences. _

Colors fly across the paper, swirling and blending to form new colors. The pencils slide over the paper in an intricate dance, creating the memories that would chain a heart.

Aquamarine eyes flash angrily as they watch the pictures form, pictures of memories she would give to _him_. "Why?" he asks bitterly. "Why are you doing this?"

"Because," she says quietly, never stopping her drawing. "I must. He needs me."

"What about me? _I _need you!" he exclaims.

She pauses for a moment, and turns to give him a small smile. "I'll always be here for you."

"But you're not _now_," he persists, gripping her shoulder. "You're _obsessed _with him, you never think about me."

She winces slightly, but does not push him away. "I know, and I'm sorry. But I have to finish chaining his memories. Otherwise, both he and Roxas will disappear."

"Let them disappear! I promised I'd take you away from this place, but I can't do that if you don't even pay attention to me!"

She shakes her head slightly. "You don't understand."

"No, no I don't understand," he snaps, throughly vexed now. "I don't understand you at all! Why do you care so much about him?!"

"I don't know," she says quietly, letting her hand trace over the drawing of a brunette boy with blue eyes. "Maybe because my Other is in love with him."

He stops, and slides his hand off her shoulder, staring at her numbly. "Does that mean . . . you're in love with him, too?"

She whirls around, horrified. "No! That's not what it means at all!"

He doesn't seem to hear her, taking a step backward, still staring at her with wide, aquamarine eyes. "You do, don't you? You love him. You don't want me any more."

The sketchbook falls from her hands and clatters to the ground. "No . . . no!" she cries. "No, that's not it at _all!_ I do love you, I do, but–"

"But you love him more."

"No! I–"

"Love him more. You . . . love . . . him . . . more," he whispers, backing up some more, aquamarine eyes staring blankly through her.

"Please, listen to me–" she pleads, desperately trying to make him understand.

But he does not hear her. He backs up one more step, shaking his head and mouthing indistinguishable words as he stares with wide eyes. Then, not being able to take it any more, he turns and runs.

And all that's left behind is a broken heart that the golden-haired girl wasn't supposed to have, and an unfolded silver crane that she clutches close to her non-existent heart.

* * *

_One more to go . . ._


	3. Tearing The Paper

_**Tearing the Paper**_

_**heart **__hahrt –noun 1. the vital center and source of one's being, emotions, and sensibilities. _

Blood spatters to the ground, staining the white floor carmine red. Heavy breathing echoes through the almost-empty room, as the silver-haired youth struggles to keep moving. He staggers across the room, nearly falling several times. He gasps in pain, squeezing his eyes shut as he wraps his arm around the wound in his stomach.

The golden-haired girl merely watches him with sad eyes, as he struggles to reach her. She wants to help him, but knows she cannot. It would be better for both of them if he never reaches her. But still, she refuses to break the thread of life. She wants to see what he will do– wants to see if he still loves her.

Aquamarine eyes flutter open again, as he forces himself onward. Three-quarters of the way there now, he renews his efforts, painfully taking each step forward. Finally, he reaches his destination and collapses at her feet, splashing blood on her shoes and the hem of her dress. He stares up at her from where he lays, and whispers the words she both wishes for and dreads hearing: "I love you."

Tears fill her eyes, and she replies, "I'm sorry, I never wanted this to happen."

He forces a pained smile and says quietly, "It's not your fault."

"Yes, yes it is," she cries, crystal tears spilling over onto her cheeks, trickling down to splash to the ground and mix with the crimson blood, turning it cerise.

"Don't you remember?" he asks. "You can't do anything wrong in my eyes." He stretches a hand up to dry her tears, but it 1falls short and he drops it back down. He gazes at her with hazy eyes, as his vision dims and murmurs, "Don't cry for me. I want to see you smile."

But how can she smile at a time like this? She tries, anyway, and manages a sort of half smile through her tears.

"Thank you," he whispers. "That's all I wanted." He reaches out again, and this time takes hold of her hand and places something in it. Then, his hand slides back and falls to the ground, as his aquamarine eyes close, never to be open again.

She lets out a soft cry, tears cascading down her cheeks. She wants to scream her pain to the world, but she cannot. She must hide her pain, and hide it well. Blinking back the tears that blur her eyes, she tilts her head down and stares at the pale yellow crane in her palm. She holds it up, then takes hold of it on either end. She pulls sharply, tearing it in two– destroying not only the paper, but the memories of a silver-haired youth, and the heart she wasn't supposed to have.

"You're free now," she whispers, clutching the tattered remains of the yellow bird to her non-existent heart, knowing that he now has something she never will. "You're free."

* * *

_The end._


End file.
